Midterm Elections in the USA

Nightly TV two-mouthed
Striped and pointing
In four toned shoes

In Macon in Chattanooga
Sculling in a blitz
Reaching a god-like hand

Hanging microphones
Like mantis arms
Staked up high

Urging unturned
And crucial enough
Or cruciate because

Of Waco’s drive
To warrior hunt
With chopping arms

The two-fingered hands
Blind teeth and pink tongue
Befurred he and she

One suit one leaning skirt
One eyebrow arched
Pushing back bangs

Oh geez two grins
One white star
A wall of TV tiles

Hoops like golden beer cans
Bobbing over yellow marks
A text-stabbed African American

Under five-o stars
Getting ready to vomit
In a grizzled Van Dyke

Pink tie mike
Ready to take on
The birthright slam

Duck walk back
The midterm glares
For news the back row

Says king me with
An eight pointed star
Pin me with herald and shield

Not so safe as we
Always thought this
Lost dog called democracy

Cultural Patriarchy in Zimbabwe. The Boil on My Butt.  

Makaitah found her way to one of my poems. She has inspired me to repost her essay about the treatment of women in her native Zimbabwe. Words lead to deeds and her words are as powerful and poetic as any I’ve read recently.

Makaitah Rogue

 

Boy, this discussion gets me all the way heated up! Its rampancy in this little teapot shaped country of mine and spread out like trampoline sheath, makes me seethe.  Growing up in a culture that thrives on the primary power of male dominance is daunting. I have always felt that something was really flawed when they tried to make patriarchal ideologies natural and normal. It just didn’t sit with me, I was simply not having it and when I finally became an adult, I rebelled against this overbearing dictatorial system. The moment I stepped out of its confining boarders, I was branded with a scarlet letter. Behold I was caught in the wrath of an ostracizing and unforgiving society.  I was a raging whore in their eyes. A woman of loose morals, dressed to attract the attention of men, she gets intoxicated with wine and dances provocatively at night…

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Love and Chemo

a frazzled thief in the burn
she came delivered to glad

disorganized and knobbed
and reaching up short

a lost wax casting
a mecca of bones in bright drapery

come and lose this she said
ride the raves the light ball ends

guitars and thin nickel strings
and rumored fathers

in this skinny hour of forenoon
couldn’t want more

a bobcat with a dark spotted neck
would leap upon the gain

only from courtesy
I must keep you dead, she said

as radiation in the mouth and spine
humanized acid; arctic life

a lover knows to pass through
the gorge and along the ledge

to take the testimony
of a lossy heart

sharp as one degree of arc-tangent
and on the summit of high nakedness

still be able to cast every
stolen chorus aside

Whistleblower

count the rinses
the rings the leavings
the unconscious
drip drop drip
of having set off the alarm
pull the shade down
watch the blue light
filter through the creases
watch the current
following the holes
watch the day
arrive in small packets
and granite faces
and breadless ways
snow snow it
does not here
this place does not recall
your jungfrau days
it takes what it wants
and hands you your coffin
with only your hands
and eyes inside

Backyard October

last night in our backyard
the Steller’s Jays
began sounding the alarm
in an orange limned sunset
all across the hillside
a predator perhaps the Barred Owl
had returned or maybe a house cat
it ended as quickly as it began
the sunset and the cawing
dying away together

Singing in Cars

Before there were radios in cars
We sang
Kid heels on windows
Like garlic buds
Past orchards with ladders
Lungs on the tree shoulders
We wandered our side of the globe
Tiny firemen in Red Ball Keds
Angular fence birds in overalls
Who wouldn’t believe a calendar
That picked pockets like a conspirator?
Past the concrete dinosaurs
Past the tongue depressor river
Heavy with cancer that gave no report
Under the gruff clouds
One dish of flung out life
The doctor couldn’t cure
With a dark slap
Born songbirds all
In a sheet metal schooner

Medic

Gagging on an apple
Each departing soul
A hopeful tent of oxygen
A bale of farther food
Moving like sea in a jar
If I could melt the maze of tongues
Shoveling out the Bibles
And the yellow daisies
Before the knees buckle
Waving away the transfer tube
I might be known as a purifier
Caulking up the Antichrist
Before the rain storms of April

But my spine runs on bourbon
And spite and green ice
Back and forth like an angry bird
Trembling I mark the spot
Where the air rudder goes
Until she gasps and circles back
A fermata in a wheelchair
Army wraparound shades propped up
Blind as my grandmother
On a snowy evening
Behind the leather padded
Doors of the US capital